


Somethin' Wicked This Way Rides

by murderofpies



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Bank Robbery, Cowboys, M/M, alternate universe-wild west, no one dies, the les amis are robin hood style bandits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 00:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20498057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderofpies/pseuds/murderofpies
Summary: the les amis are robin hood style bandits who steal from banks to give to the poorgrantaire just happened to be at the right place at the right time





	Somethin' Wicked This Way Rides

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this story is from a poem about witches and cowboys written by tumblr user omnybus
> 
> this is not exactly important information, but i feel the need to tell you that everyone in this story is wearing a cowboy hat at all times
> 
> i was thinking about how a cowboy au would work with les mis and how great that'd be and how someone should write that, and then i remembered that i could write that, since i am indeed a writer. 
> 
> anyway, here's what turned out. any comments and kudos are greatly appreciated

The sun was hot and sweltering, as it tended to be in the west. It was the kind of heat that made everyone want to stay inside all day long and get nothing done. The wind blew every now and again, which sounds like it would make things better, but it really just got dirt everywhere. Luckily, Grantaire was relatively clean, seeing as how he had hardly been outside all day. 

The bright sun was not one that suited a hangover, and the darkest place in town just so happened to be the saloon. Grantaire would go in to escape the bright sun, and end up staying. Maybe he bought a drink or two. There wasn’t much else to do at a saloon in the middle of the day. It was a vicious cycle, and one that was hard to break. So here he sat, on a dingy barstool, wasting his life away. 

Musichetta, the saloon owner, set down a polished glass in front of his normal seat as soon as Grantaire walked through the door. 

“The usual?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Grantaire plopped into his seat and slumped on the bar. He mumbled something incoherent that Musichetta could not quite understand. His head remained there, pressing into the wood, until a glass was set down next to his head.

He took a sniff of it. “What is this?”

“It’s supposed to help with that bottle-ache of yours. Some passing gentleman told me about it last night. Thought I might try it out on you to see if it works or not.”

Grantaire grimaced at her. “I do very dearly value our friendship.”

Musichetta huffed and set down the other glass she had begun to polish. “You know you mean a lot to me, R, and it’s ‘cause of that that I hate to watch you waste away your life here. Don’t you ever want to do something more?”

The two remained silent for a moment. Grantaire sniffed at his drink again and knocked it back. He promptly coughed and thumped himself on the chest.

“What was in that?” he asked, his eyes watering slightly.

Musichetta grinned at him and picked up her glass again. “You don’t want to know.”

Astride horses, overlooking the small town, sat a group of friends known as the Les Amis. They were also called several other names, including but not limited to: bandits, dirty rotten thieves, a regular bunch of Robin Hoods, and (on one memorable occasion) the scum of the earth who are not fit to clean the horses they ride on. 

The mission of the group was to level the playing field between the rich and the poor, to make sure the government cared about its people. They had only made any progress in the former, and were still working on that. The main thing that separates the upper and lower class is, obviously, money. So that is most of what the Amis work on: leveling the playing field. Bahorel tries to insist that they call it what it is, robbing banks. (It is common knowledge among the band of Robin Hood thieves that Bahorel joined to rob banks. It was only afterwards that he began to believe in their cause.)

“Do we have to rob the bank?” a voice piped up from the back of the pack. It belonged to Marius, the newest member. Coufeyrac had talked him into joining one night while they were both rip roaring drunk. It was the general impression that Marius had not understood what exactly the Amis did, and once he did, was too polite to leave.

The young man on the horse at the front, the leader Enjolras, huffed. “Do you have a better idea, Marius?”

Marius, who seemed to have gained some courage, replied, “Why don’t we just have an easy night? We could sleep in a real bed, maybe get a drink or two-”

“Or six,” Coufeyrac interjected.

“I’d like to see you try and ride a horse with alcohol poisoning,” Feuilly put in. 

“Wait, who has the poisoning: me or the horse?”

“The ass does,” Combeferre, the most sensible of them all, retorted.

There was a beat of silence before Coufeyrac understood.

“Hey now-”

Enjolras interrupted them, “We can rest when the job is done. Does everyone remember their part?”

He turned to the group and they nodded. Enjolras turned back to face the small town, and in unison, the Amis pulled the bandanas that had been hanging on their necks to cover their faces. 

“Then let’s ride.”

Grantaire grumbled as he squinted against the midday son. Musichetta had told him to run down to the bank to exchange some money for her. She said it was because she was busy and he had nothing better to do. Just because she was right does not mean that he doesn’t want to do it. 

The streets in the town were empty, since every sensible person in town was indoors somewhere. So, Grantaire shuffled down the street in silence, trying to shield his eyes with the brim of his hat. Dirt covered his boots and made him cough.

In what seemed like far too long, he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the bank and stepped inside. He stamped the dirt from his boots and walked up to the counter, where the owner’s daughter, Cosette, sat. The interior of the bank was impeccably clean compared to anywhere else in the town. It seemed to be the only respectable place for miles, not to downplay Musichetta.

“Hello, Grantaire,” Cosette greeted him. “What can I get for you today?”

Grantaire cleared his throat before saying, “Musichetta needs me to exchange some of this money for her.” He set the bag of coins down in front of her.

“I’ll be right back.” With that, Cosette turned to go into the vault where the money was kept. 

Grantaire drummed his fingers on the counter and whistled while he waited. It was some old tune that his mother used to sing for him before he left for the West. He loved to sing, but the occasion rarely arose anymore, because few people liked to hear his drunken singing. 

It had not been a minute that Cosette had been gone before two men walked through the doors. One was an awkward booby of a man, but the other was-wow. The other one was a work of art. Grantaire had not seen a painting canvas in years but the man before him made him long for a brush. 

It was as if the ancient Apollo himself had strolled in through those wooden doors. He was dressed in the typical attire of a cowboy with the red bandana around his neck and the cowboy hat atop his head, but he pulled it off so well. Grantaire knew without hearing him that this man would speak with the voice of angels. 

And then the man addressed him. Wow-wait, what did he say?

“Are you the only one here?”

It took the poor drunkard a moment before he could respond.

“No, the teller, Cosette, is in the back. Why do you ask?”

Before the god among men could respond, there was an explosion in the back. His Apollo swore and turned to the other man with him. 

“I told Bahorel to wait another minute.”

The booby, who now looked scared out of his wits, replied, “One minute can’t make that much of a difference.”

“We were supposed to clear the building.” And the masterpiece looked over at him, at Grantaire, pointedly.

As if to punctate the point that people were still around, Cosette came running out of the back shouting to Grantaire, “R, run! There are thieves in the back!”

Cosette kept motioning to him and therefore failed to notice the two other men, bandits apparently, who were still in the room with them. In her haste, she ran right into the other one, nearly knocking the both of them over. Immediately, Grantaire could see that the booby had fallen madly in love with Cosette. This may pose a problem in the bank robbing plans. 

The booby’s voice rose two octaves higher than it had been before when he said to Cosette, “My name’s Marius Pontmercy.”

Cosette, more flustered than Grantaire had ever seen her, replied, “And mine’s Cosette.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Cosette,” Grantaire’s Apollo interrupted, “but I am afraid that Marius and I have to leave. Right now. Unless he wants the both of us to get caught.”

Marius came back to reality slowly, and with a stupid grin on his face. Poor boy, he has to leave right now, because he’ll never get to see Cosette in prison. 

“The sheriff is probably on his way now,” Grantaire said before he even realized the words were coming out of his mouth. “I could show you a back way out of town where you could avoid him.”

The other three heads snapped to look back at him, all clearly having forgotten that he was there. Which was not an uncommon occurrence. Just a sad one. But that’s not the point here. The point was that Marius and this masterpiece of a human being were going to get arrested if he didn’t help them.

There wasn’t even a beat of silence before the blonde-headed bandit responded, “Please do.”

Grantaire was shocked that he had taken him up on his offer so quickly, even at all, that it took him a moment to respond.

“Right, uh, follow me.”

Marius hesitated a second too long in saying goodbye to Cosette, so Apollo grabbed him by his wrist and pulled him after Grantaire. 

What an odd party they made. Two bandits on the verge of being caught by the sheriff, Javert, and one drunkard who wasn’t drunk at the moment. Or even hungover. Wow, he’d have to tell Musichetta that her concoction worked. Whenever he got to go back to the saloon. Which, the more he thought about it, might be a while.

“Here.” he pointed to the back door. “Take a left at the end of this alley, and you should see some hills not far off. Once you get into those things, it would take fifty sheriffs to find you.”

It was that moment that their party of three heard the front door of the bank crash open, and the resulting shouts from the sheriff inside.

“Come on,” Apollo said, and grabbing Grantaire by his wrist, drug him over to where the horses stood waiting. “If the sheriff sees you here, he’ll assume you were a part of it too. Come with us, and we can bring you back once this has all blown over.”

Apollo seated himself upon the horse and held out a hand for Grantaire. He took it, and sat behind this god. Apollo kicked the horse into a gallop and off they went.

This is not how Grantaire assumed his day was going to go when he woke up that morning. Riding on a horse with the most beautiful man he has ever seen in his life, with a lovesick booby trailing behind them, while on the run from the law. It was only a moment before eight other riders joined them, some carrying what appeared to be a significant amount of money, and their party rode off towards the hills at Grantaire’s direction.

Well, it’s not the sunset, but it will have to do for now.


End file.
